About the Book
To be, or not to be: that is the question.
William Shakespeare's greatest speech, delivered by Hamlet, has the power to inspire writers of all ages and backgrounds, and to lead each of us to consider the most difficult and troubling questions of existence.
These powerful, honest words have influenced and fired the imaginations of audiences, actors and readers for more than 400 years.
Features of this journal are:
6x9in, 110 pages lined (standard, B&W) on both sides front title and owner's contact details page cover soft, matte
Writing is a process of self-discovery, and the elegant To Be Or Not To Be Journal seeks to inspire all writers as well as fans of great literature. It is a Shakespeare notebook that is bound to make perfect William Shakespeare gifts for teacher or student, actor or theatregoer (Shakespeare gifts Hamlet related and more broadly), or memorable Shakespeare gifts for women and men, long-time Bardolaters and newcomers and young and old.
The speech in full runs:
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to dream; aye, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of disprized love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
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